


Out of Sight

by ryeloza



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 22:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20299069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryeloza/pseuds/ryeloza
Summary: During Road Trip, Ben and Leslie take Chris up on his offer to play Boggle.Featuring oblivious Chris, frustrated Ben, and an unhealthy amount of UST.





	1. Chapter 1

Ben can tell his frustration is palpable. He feels it etched across his face, blatant as the sun on a cloudless day, yet Chris smiles at him as if there’s nothing untoward going on here. He’s oblivious, and on a more generous day, Ben would feel guilty about the fact that Chris has placed an immense amount of trust in his ethics; it’s clearly the one thing that keeps him from reading too much in to every interaction Ben has with Leslie, because even a senseless buffoon could sense the tension between them at this point.

Like he said, it’s written all over his face.

The thing is, Chris has always had the keen ability to thwart Ben’s romantic life. There have been many occasions before tonight, before Leslie, where Chris managed to wedge himself into the middle of something: embraces that turn into group hugs or set-ups interrupted by phone calls—or, if Ben ignores them, impromptu drop-ins at the restaurant because Ben can’t seem to learn the lesson never to take Chris’ recommendations. Given his past track record, Ben thought he might have better luck with the fact that Chris doesn’t know about his feelings for Leslie, except here they are again, and it’s even worse because he can’t pull Chris aside and tell him he’s being a well-intentioned pain in the ass. It would almost be fascinating, if Ben weren’t ready to lose his mind.

“Good,” says Leslie, like she might have actually been listening to whatever Chris was saying. Something about radishes? Ben can’t say for sure. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

She’s off the couch before Ben can protest, which is probably for the best since there’s no logical reason on earth why he should fight her on this, but instead of heading around the coffee table, she attempts to squeeze past him. He’s really not sure if it’s the enclosed space or the fact that she’s in such a hurry or because she’s deliberately trying not to touch him, but the next thing he knows, she trips. It’s a graceful movement, a hiccup in her escape that she’d probably gloss over with ease except that he panics, somehow moving a hand to balance her and contracting his body away from her all at once, and in his sporadic twitching, her foot catches on his. She falls forward as he shrinks back into the couch, and the next thing he knows, she’s on top of him.

He’s imagined holding Leslie a lot; a ridiculous number of times, really, and definitely more than he wants to admit. In his mind, it was never this awkward. There’s one blissful second where her breasts are pressed against his shoulder, but he’s too distracted by her hair in his face and the way her knee came perilously close to his balls; consequently he fails to notice until their warm, soft weight is abruptly pushed away as her hands scramble for some purchase. His hands, which wrapped around her lower back of their own volition, slip away as she squirms off of him, and he bunches them against the fabric of his pants, a lame attempt to look innocent even though he can hear his heart beating in his ears. He doesn’t dare look at Leslie as she rights herself.

“Whoops,” says Chris, and Ben makes a point not to look at him either, trying desperately to control his breathing and not to think about the unexpected flowery scent of Leslie’s hair. “Leslie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Fine. And Ben’s fine. You’re fine, right?”

He’s far from fine, still staring at a spot on the floor and digging his nails into his thighs, and increasingly certain that both Leslie and Chris know exactly how far from innocent his thoughts are right now. He lets out a strangled grunt he hopes they’ll take as agreement, and Leslie says, “See? Fine.”

“Well,” says Chris, sounding not at all like he’s about to drag Ben into the other room for a lecture about appropriate places to touch a coworker. Not that Ben needs to be reminded of the way his fingertips grazed Leslie’s ass for one brief moment. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m wide awake now. You wanna Boggle?”

Ben finally manages to lift his head, not sure if he’s more surprised that Chris is still smiling pleasantly or that Leslie’s cheeks are the tiniest bit flushed or that a grown man just suggested they play a game Ben hasn’t thought about since elementary school. All of it is trumped by Leslie nodding, purposely navigating the other side of the coffee table this time, and agreeing, “Yeah. Let’s play.” There’s an unnatural timbre in her voice, falsely light and tinged with something taut, and she doesn’t quite meet his eyes when she looks back at him. “It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, buddy. Come on.”

This is an inherently bad idea. His nerves, which were already wound tight with anticipation, have spiraled beyond his control, and the last thing he needs is a front row seat to Leslie’s competitive spirit and enthusiasm when Chris will be right there the whole time. But what is the alternative? Lie alone on the couch and try to ignore what’s going on a few feet away?

“Sure,” he agrees, throwing Leslie a somewhat petulant look. “Let’s play Boggle.”

“Excellent.” Chris claps his hands together and wanders off to find the game, leaving Ben to stare at Leslie. He wants her to explain, to give reason to the fact that she’s asking him to follow her further down this rabbit hole when five minutes ago she was about to go to bed, but she seems no more able to communicate with words right now than he is. She stands there, hands stuffed into the pockets of her sweatshirt, and while he’s pretty sure she’s still as frustrated as he is, he can more clearly read the resignation in her eyes. He can’t tell its direction, though—if she’s given up on this night being anything more or on _them_ being anything more—and if he had one wish in the world right now, it would be for everyone else on the planet to disappear for an hour so he could just talk to her about this.

Well, maybe he’d do a little more than just talk.

“You guys know how to play, right?” Chris reenters the room and steals Leslie’s attention; Ben, whose focus has been at least mostly directed at Leslie for weeks now no matter what else is going on, barely looks at Chris long enough to nod. His friend leads the way to his dining room table, Leslie following, and Ben trails behind like someone being led to his execution. “You know,” says Chris thoughtfully; he seats himself at the head of the table and Ben takes the seat to his right, across from Leslie, “people always ask me why I prefer Boggle to Scrabble, since they’re both delightful word building games. Some even say it _boggles_ the mind.”

Ben groans. His appreciation of puns aside, he’s in no mood for this right now. Leslie manages to smile, temperate enthusiasm for the joke, but Chris takes the whole thing in stride. “The best thing about Boggle is the delightful noise you get to make when shaking the tray.” He picks up the game and holds it out to Ben, wearing that telling look that says he’s going to make it his personal mission to cheer Ben up. In the grand scheme of things, he guesses he’s lucky a bad mood is all Chris has taken away from tonight. "Come on, buddy,” he encourages. “Try it. It's guaranteed to perk you up."

Ben raises an eyebrow, sardonic and incredulous the only feasible alternatives to irritable and sullen. Since Chris’ arrival, the night has been an unwelcome mixture of all four at various moments. He gives the Boggle tray few halfhearted shakes and sets it down between them, lifting the lid and nudging one stubborn die into its spot. Immediately, Leslie leans toward the board, and the movement loosens the neckline of her shirt; for a minute, his eyes lock on the swell of her breasts, weakly repressed fantasies bubbling back to the surface as he imagines what it would be like to press his lips against that smooth expanse of skin, and then Chris delivers another quick, if much needed, dose of reality. “Are we ready?”

Ben tears his eyes from Leslie’s chest to her face, flushing at her knowing look, and glances at his friend for a second before guiltily averting his gaze. He’s certain that both Chris and Leslie know where his eyes were a moment ago, and he clears his throat, suddenly aware that his mouth is parched. It’s sweltering in this apartment, actually, and Chris’ masterfully designed workout clothes are certainly working overtime to absorb the sweat from his overheated body, even if he’s sure they’re only making him warmer; he resists the urge to unzip the jacket and strip down to his undershirt, and instead reaches for the timer.

“Go!” shouts Chris, lunging for his pen and pad of paper. Leslie already has hers in hand, and he has the surreal feeling that he’s isolated in some alternate understanding of reality. Frowning, he turns over the timer.

Chris is already scribbling words, and Leslie’s brow furrows in concentration, this ridiculously adorable look that only makes him want to kiss her more, and he’s only vaguely aware that he hasn’t even picked up his pen yet. With Chris absorbed in the game, though, it feels like a gift: three minutes to watch Leslie without interruption, to see the way she chews on her lip as she’s thinking and study the soft curve of her cheek and examine the way her pen moves across the paper.

Except that last thing isn’t happening. The tip of her pen rests against the tablet, ready to move at a moment’s notice, but Leslie doesn’t seem to have found a word yet, which seems impossible given the rate at which Chris is writing. She releases her lip from between her teeth, slightly reddened and swollen, and Ben can’t be bothered to analyze her lack of participation in the game. He imagines what it would be like to kiss her right now—to lean across the table and cup her cheek with his hand, capturing her lower lip between his and soothing it with his tongue. The thought makes him squirm, back straightening and legs fidgeting beneath the table, and before he can indulge his fantasy further, Leslie kicks him hard in his shin.

It’s an admonishment, to be sure. Even if her eyes are glued to the board, she’s not oblivious, and it serves as a reminder that Chris may not be either. Still, he feels reluctant when he picks up his pen, unwilling to focus on this stupid game when he’s fixated on how torturous this is.

Torturous, yes. Solving the world's most obnoxious word search in Chris' apartment while having to sit across from this beautiful woman who just two hours ago told him he wasn't alone in the way he feels about her and _not being able to do anything about it_, is practically the dictionary definition. But Leslie seems to take his halfhearted attempt at participation as acquiescence to let this go; her pen moves with rapidity now, scribbling words in her hurried, slanted handwriting, singularly determined to beat Chris.

Somehow her singlemindedness is both sexy and infuriating, and the combination has some lethal authority over any sense he might have had left. Before he realizes he’s doing so, his foot crosses the space between them and rests against hers, toe brushing against her ankle.

Leslie freezes. Doesn't look at him, not even a glance out of the corner of her eye, but her pen stops moving across the paper, and it's obvious that she's no longer focused on finding words. And as pathetic as it is, her reaction is enough to make his heart beat faster; whatever resignation was in her eyes earlier has nothing to do with how she feels about him.

"Time's up!"

Leslie jumps, but for once, Ben turns to Chris calmly, still sliding his foot across Leslie's soft skin. There’s something bizarrely satisfying about maintaining contact right under Chris' nose, of finally being able to touch her after hours of his constant interference.

"Why, Ben," Chris exclaims. "You didn't get any words."

"Nope."

Chris slaps him on the shoulder, too distracted by Ben's failure to notice the way Leslie is looking at him—a mixture of exasperation and want that leaves Ben reeling. "Don't worry, buddy. You'll catch up in the next round. I know it."

He turns to Leslie, who tears her eyes from Ben a beat late, and they begin to tally their points. There’s a rule Ben forgot about common words canceling each other out, and despite her shortened playing time, Leslie ends up only six points behind. When she closes the lid over the board and shakes it more vociferously than Ben did, Chris gives him a pointed look of encouragement, as if to say, “That’s how you do it.”

Frankly, it’s a lot less annoying while playing footsie with Leslie. She sets down the tray and pulls off the lid, staring at him as she picks up her pen. “I think you’re afraid you can’t beat us.”

He couldn’t care less about winning the game at this point. As far as challenges go, this one does little more than arouse his already heightened desire for her, which he would bet is probably her point. He raised the stakes when he deliberately touched her, but Leslie isn’t one to fold, and despite the fact that this couldn’t be more foolish, he doesn’t want to back down now.

“Ben, is that true?” asks Chris, so unaware of what’s unfolding in front of his eyes that Ben almost pities him. “I happen to think you’re an exceptionally literate person. Don’t doubt your Boggle abilities.”

“I’m sure I’ll do better this time,” he says, and both Leslie’s and Chris’ faces light up, albeit for very different reasons. He inches his toes up Leslie’s pant-leg, rubbing them against her skin and then moving his foot back to its resting place on top of hers. Her toes curl up beneath him for a second, tickling the arch of his foot, and he reaches for the timer to cover his shiver at the sensation. He flips it before Chris can shout go this time and tries to concentrate on the board instead of Leslie.

If there is one advantage Ben will cede to this game, it is this: it’s easy to pretend he’s making some sort of effort. Lazily jotting down a few three letter words that immediately jump out at him, putting something on his paper so he can mask what’s really going on—there’s no challenge to it. Of course, he’s not going to win; he doesn’t have anything that won’t be knocked out of play, but that’s of little concern when Leslie’s foot circles around his, hooking around his ankle.

He sneaks a glance at her with all the subtlety that his earlier gawking lacked, pausing at the hint of her smile. She looks the closest to coy he’s ever seen her, and he wonders if this could really be so simple. If they could have a relationship cut into discreet parts, one public and one private. Considering, that is, that Chris manages to give them one minute of privacy at some point.

Leslie’s foot begins to travel, inching under the hem of his pant-leg until her foot strokes his calf. Her toes are cool against his skin, a strange contradiction to how everywhere else she radiates heat, but the sensation is relief in the sweltering confines of this room. Only Chris seems unaffected, judging by the slight flush of Leslie’s cheeks and neck, and Ben imagines how warm her skin would feel under his hands, against his lips, pressed against him as he kissed her. He shifts in his seat, acutely aware that he’s treading a thin line between turned on and fully aroused, and mercifully, he realizes the timer has run out. For once, he needs Chris to act as a bucket of cold water.

“Why Ben, you’ve made a marked improvement,” Chris gushes. It’s the type of positive reinforcement a parent would give to a child, instantaneous and overemphasized, and Ben isn’t surprised when Leslie lets out an inelegant chuckle. His list consists of five words, one of which, he belated realizes, he wrote twice. “Although I’m sorry to say I have all of those words as well.”

“Better luck next time,” Leslie intones brightly. She lightly scrapes her toenail down his leg, and Ben nearly strangles his pen.

Ben, are you feeling all right?” Chris asks, somehow radiating concern while pulling away from him. “You look peaked.”

“I’m fine. Just a little warm.”

Leslie smirks as Chris frowns, and Ben barely manages to maintain any control over the situation. “It looks like you got a lot,” he prompts, and though his skeptical look lingers, Chris turns to Leslie to compare words. Somehow, she’s able to tie up the game, and he has to wonder how she’d fare if the game had her full attention. Maybe she can teach him to double task the way she does; at this rate, he’ll be lucky if Chris isn’t feeding him word puzzles for the next month to improve his skills.

The next few rounds continue in the same fashion: Chris and Leslie neck-in-neck for the win; Ben lagging behind and celebrating his private victories. He takes a certain pride in the moments he sees Leslie falter in the game, when a brush of his skin against hers or an unexpected movement makes her lose her train of thought. He catalogues the slight changes in her face when he does so—the flutter of her eyes or the slight duck of her head or how she bites down on her lower lip. All the flirting they’ve been doing for weeks is finally manifested in physical contact, and he is privy to how it translates.

Not to say that Leslie isn’t doing the same. He watches her make mental notes of which movements make him squirm, which make him shiver, which rid him of any ability to think. Deep down he knows everything is amplified by the forbidden nature of this and the sense that they’re getting away with something; somehow it only manages to excite him more, though, sparking the exquisite anticipation of what’s to come.

Ben loses track of how long they play before Chris suggests a final round. He and Leslie are five points apart while Ben remains hopelessly in last place, but Chris’ announcement doesn’t strike a fear of losing so much as it reminds him that a long, unsatisfying night alone lays before him. This doesn’t end with him and Leslie in bed together.

Chris picks up the Boggle tray and begins to shake it like a maraca, eyes closed and head bobbing in time to his own music. Under any other circumstances, Ben knows he’d be holding back a laugh, meeting Leslie’s eyes across the table and sharing a private joke. When he looks at her now, though, all he feels is frustration and self-deprecating resignation that this is the end for now. For the first time since this game began, she meets his gaze, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“This is for the win,” Chris reminds them as he plunks the tray down and whips off the cover. He gives Ben an encouraging slap on the shoulder, as if he’s going to make up a twenty-eight point deficit in one round. “Make it count.”

He glances back at Leslie, but her eyes are already on the board. Sighing, he flips over the timer for the last time and watches his opponents take off.

It’s like the first round all over again. He’s not even bothering to try, instead basking in three unadulterated minutes to watch Leslie and play footsie under the table. She’s gotten better at ignoring him—or possibly she just really wants to win—and her pen races across the paper this time. Her foot begins to tap against his, a nervous staccato, and he responds by lightly pinning her down beneath the table.

So this is it for now. Tomorrow they’ll be back in Pawnee, and Ben will find a few minutes alone with her even if it means locking Chris in a bathroom. He can be patient; in the grand scheme of things, twelve hours isn’t insurmountable, just long.

Excruciatingly long.

Leslie’s foot slips from under his, lightly stroking the top of his foot and then moving up his leg to wrap around his calf. He imagines using this as proof tomorrow, reminding her that they spent an hour maintaining physical contact while Chris remained none the wiser. They can be sneaky. They can be together, and no one has to know.

He feels her big toe brush the back of his knee as he ponders meetings that might go like this (if, of course, he can learn to split his focus as Leslie does; they’ll probably have to practice). His mind winds around surreptitious kisses and secluded moments, an ode to how they can make this work and see if it’s worth pursuing. He’s known for a while now that their potential exceeds all the risks, and this night is as much as testament to that as anything else.

Lost as he is in his quickly curtailing fantasies, Ben doesn’t notice that Leslie’s foot continues to steadily creep up his leg until the arch of her foot slots against his inner thigh. He jumps at the contact, drawn forcibly back from the future to this moment, and one of his knees hits the table. Chris looks up in concern. “Are you all right, Ben?” he asks, the words garbled like Ben’s head has been pulled below water; he sees the words form on Chris’ lips more than he hears them. Dimly, he nods, one hand gripping the edge of the table as Leslie’s foot continues to slide up his leg until it is fully extended. Her toes flex, brushing perilously close to his dick, and he stands abruptly, chair tipping back and nearly crashing to the floor.

“Water,” he rasps, eyes flitting everywhere but to Leslie; one mischievous smile would be enough to propel this situation beyond control. “I think—I’m going to get some water.”

“Ben?”

He ignores Chris’ alarm, stumbling toward the kitchen and rounding the corner so he’s out sight. Gripping the edge of the counter, he takes a few long, steadying breaths, focusing solely on the intake and expulsion of air from his lungs. Other thoughts, much more dangerous ones about Leslie and deliberate touches and how if her legs were one inch longer…, flit about the edge of his mind, and it takes effort not to indulge any of them. Annoyingly, for once Chris is nowhere near the periphery of his inappropriate thoughts about Leslie, and it’s the one time Ben most needs him to be.

“Ben?”

He stiffens at Leslie’s voice, hands tightening against the counter and then falling away as he turns to face her. It’s a bad idea, given that he’s teetering on the edge of losing control; control that’s strained to its breaking point when he sees her standing there. The apology he expected to see in her eyes is absent, replaced by something darker and more desperate, and he feels the last of his resolve disappear.

He closes the space between them in three steps and kisses her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU version of Road Trip where Leslie and Ben decide to play Boggle with Chris.

Kissing Leslie is like breathing fresh air for the first time. It clears his mind, anxieties and desperation and fantasy melting away, creating a focus so pinpoint, he lives in this moment. He catches her gasp of surprise as his lips meet hers, a soft but insistent kiss whose questions are answered the moment Leslie kisses him back. There’s a minute where they’re both lost in each other, her tongue brushing his lower lip, his hand sweeping along her cheek, but it is Leslie who comes to her senses first. Her hands find purchase on his hips, pushing him backward until his back hits the kitchen counter. He responds by opening his mouth beneath hers, heightening their kiss from exploratory to consuming, and she indulges him with a small moan before she pulls back.

It takes Ben a long moment to come back to earth. They’re both breathing heavily, his hand pressed to the small of her back, holding her close, and he finds himself smiling uncontrollably, eyes memorizing every nuance of her face. She’s a bit more frantic, her gaze darting around nervously, but it doesn’t stop him from giving her another quick kiss before moving his lips to her forehead.

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” he manages to explain, and Leslie nods, tipping her head back to look up at him. Her eyes continue to be inscrutable, however encouraging her responses to him have been. She starts to speak, but only gets as far as his name when Chris breaks the spell.

“Leslie?” he calls. Ben jolts, instinctively trying to back away from Leslie with nowhere to go. She’s less jumpy, taking a calm step out of his reach; it isn’t until she drops eye contact, though, that Ben feels stranded. “Leslie, is it safe?”

“Yeah.” Chris’ head pops around the corner at Leslie’s response, eyeing them both as if he knows something untoward occurred. Ben moves a hand to rub the back of his neck, belatedly recognizes it as a nervous tick, and drops it awkwardly. “It’s fine,” Leslie reiterates, more exasperated than usual. Her patience seems as broken as Ben’s was earlier. “He’s not sick.”

Ben raises an eyebrow as Chris moves into the kitchen, remaining at a healthy distance. In a moment of clarity, he realizes that he was one bout of paranoia away from being caught kissing his coworker; the thought weakens his knees, and he grips the counter behind him. Of the many idiotic things he’s done in his lifetime, this one ranks high on the list.

Perhaps even stupider, he doesn’t even regret it.

This whole night has been a game, a foray into openly defying Chris and getting away with it. But playing footsie under the table is one risk; kissing Leslie in his boss’ kitchen is another entirely. Despite all evidence to the contrary tonight, this one mistake doesn’t bode well for a relationship that will have to be built on sneaking around.

“You still look flushed,” Chris observes. “Are you running a temperature? Should I get a thermometer?”

“I’m fine.” He swallows the lie; the gamut of emotions he’s run in the last five minutes really has left him a bit woozy. “Just overheated. That’s all.”

Chris looks to Leslie as if she can confirm this, and she shrugs. “It is kind of warm in here.”

“I suppose I could turn up the air conditioner, if that’s really all you think it is.”

“That’s okay.” Ben releases his grip on the counter, regaining enough use of his legs to propel him forward; Chris can’t help but take a step back. “I think I’m just going to get a quick shower, if that’s okay? Cool down before I go to sleep.”

“Of course.” Chris fidgets, and Ben feels a stir of guilt. The poor bastard will probably spend hours disinfecting this place once they’re gone. “Really, Chris,” he adds. “I’m sure it was just the rousing game of Boggle. It got me riled up.”

Despite the inevitable touch of sarcasm in Ben’s words, Chris finally smiles. As an explanation, it’s pretty weak, but sometimes Chris hears what he wants. “Boggle can be titillating.”

“Right.”

“There are extra towels in the bathroom cupboard,” offers Chris. “And I could get you some fresh pajamas.”

“That’s okay.” Ben glances at Leslie, who only meets his eyes momentarily before looking away, and then manages a tight smile for Chris. “I’ll—uh—see you guys in the morning. Night.”

Chris’ response is subdued, for him, and Leslie’s is nonexistent, but Ben feels relieved despite the disheartening dose of reality. He needs a few minutes to himself, a chance to clear his mind and reconcile what he already knows in his gut: beyond all risks or logic or his sense of guilt, he wants to be with Leslie. As foolhardy as it may be, as shaky as he still feels about nearly getting caught in the middle of their first kiss, his desire for her still trumps everything else. But he needs to get a grip. He can’t indulge his feelings every time he has them like a child with poor impulse control, and he can’t become arrogant in his open dismissal of the rules.

He has to be more careful.

Still, once he’s ensconced safely in the bathroom, Ben lets the last of his anxiety ebb. It’s easier than it should be, prone as he is to follow what-ifs to their ends, but tonight his worry is trumped by something more important.

He finally kissed Leslie Knope.

Never mind where or when or why or who happened to be in the next room, the most important thing is that he did it. He kissed her after months of waiting and didn’t even have more than a minute to enjoy it before they were interrupted. Damn it if indulging in that moment doesn’t dominate everything else he’s feeling right now.

He finds a towel easily, setting it on the edge of the sink near the shower and then stripping down and folding the clothes. The shower is small, more akin to the size of a dormitory stall than anything else, but as he shuts the door and turns on the water, it feels like heaven. At last, the rest of the world fades away, leaving him alone with his thoughts of Leslie.

His mind replays the evening, helpfully editing Chris from the periphery of his memories and letting him concentrate on Leslie. It’s an unsteady barrage, images slipping by like raindrops through his fingers, each one too fine to hold for long. Her sly smile as she teased him and the palest smattering of freckles on her nose; the look in her eyes right before he kissed her and the fluttering of her eyelashes when he first touched her foot: they coalesce, a perfect storm of his desire for her.

His hand moves down, seemingly of its own volition; he’s been on the precipice of arousal since their game earlier, and now, alone, he can finally ease coil of tension he’s felt all night. He strokes himself, his other hand braced against the wall, letting the few perfect snippets of this day blend into his most hopeful intentions. He imagines that moment in the kitchen playing out uninterrupted, the risk of being caught replaced with the tension that’s been simmering between them for weeks.

He can still feel the firm grasp of her hands against his hips, pressing him back into the counter, and now he thinks of them demanding more, untucking his shirt to touch his skin, her nails lightly scraping along his back. Groaning, he lets his lips discover her skin, traveling across her jaw and down her neck, teasing her with his tongue as he maps her most sensitive spots. Leslie is soft and smooth and sweet, but more importantly, so alive, so stunning in her ability to make him feel everything. She tugs at his hair until he obeys her command, lifting his lips back to hers and devouring her with his kiss.

“Ben?”

For the second time that night, he jumps out of his skin. His foot slips as he flails at the sound of her voice, and his back hits the wall, hard. “Leslie?” he wheezes, half-hoping he imagined her voice. He shudders to think what she might have heard.

“We need to talk.”

Good lord. “Now?”

“Yeah. It’s perfect.” He hears the toilet seat clank shut and imagines Leslie perched there, mere feet from where he stands naked and aroused. In different circumstances, this wouldn’t be close to being the problem it is right now. “Chris went to bed, and he thinks I did too.”

“I’m in the shower.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ben presses his forearm against the opposite wall and leans his forehead against it, taking a few deep breaths. He manages to back away from the edge, but it’s impossible to imagine this ending well. Not with Leslie right there and thoughts of her kiss and soft skin are still flitting through his mind. “I know we need to talk,” he says, trying to focus on the water beating against his back, “but—“

“You kissed me.”

He straightens up, pushing his hair off of his forehead even though the water immediately beats it back down. As much as he’d prefer to have the conversation face-to-face and, ideally, not in the middle of jacking off, at least this current predicament will restrict them to just talking. He braces his hands against the wall, promising to keep them there the whole time, just as Leslie prompts him to speak. “Ben?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat and stares at the wall. The tile is a numbingly dull blue. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

“Chris was right in the other room.”

“I wasn’t thinking about Chris, Leslie. I was thinking about you. I was thinking about how I was hoping this night would go.”

She’s quiet, mulling over his confession, and he tries to picture her, wondering if she’s chewing nervously on her lip or her hands are fidgeting or if somehow he’s managed to stun her. Surely, though, she knew what was going on in his head, what his intentions were when he confessed his feelings at dinner. He hasn’t been especially coy tonight.

“I’m sorry,” he says, refusing to question her pondering silence. “I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just—I don’t think things can keep going the way they have been. We were being reckless hours before I kissed you. This tension between us…It has a breaking point, Leslie.”

“I know. I—“ She sighs, and he can’t tell if she’s frustrated or regretful. “I almost kissed you, too,” she confesses in a rush. “When I tripped earlier. For a minute, it was like Chris wasn’t even there.” She pauses, then adds, “I’ve wanted to kiss you all night.”

God. If Chris had only stayed in Pawnee tonight like he was supposed to…

“Maybe if we both pretend to be sick, Chris will quarantine us together in the guest bedroom.”

He laughs, mostly to keep his mind from wandering down that path, but it comes out more bitterly than he’d like. Someday down the road, he hopes he actually finds all of this amusing. Tonight, it rides a fine line between bleak and frustrating. “What are we going to do about this, Leslie?”

“Stop being careless?”

“What—“ He swallows the question, not sure he can voice it even though his mind screams for clarification. Careless is too vague a word given all of the nuances of their relationship right now, but he almost doesn’t want to know if she means they shouldn’t take this further. Not when he finally knows how her lips feel against his, how she feels about him, how perfect it is just to spend an evening with her without the pretense of work. He’d rather remain staid in this imperfect bubble of frustration than move forward without her.

The possibility that she’s not being so grave is too much to contemplate.

Suddenly, this conversation is unbearable to have without looking at her. He shuts off the water and opens the shower door a crack, reaching out a hand to grope blindly for his towel. It’s awkward, and he feels self-conscious when he asks Leslie to grab the towel for him, as if he’s just reminded her of the fact that he’s naked. The absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on him.

“Here,” she offers. He reaches out and grasps the towel, his gratitude barely out of his mouth when they’re interrupted by a loud knock on the door. As it’s been all night, Chris’ interruption is both unwelcome and ill-timed, but it’s Leslie who panics this time, wrenching the shower door open from his grasp and leaping inside.

For a second, he stares at her, flabbergasted, but it isn’t until her eyes flit quickly down his body before arching dramatically to the ceiling that he remembers his current state of undress. He unfurls the towel and wraps it around his waist, unable to look away from Leslie despite Chris’ persistent pounding.

“Ben? Do you mind if I come in for a minute? I desperately need to make use of the facilities.”

It is possible, Ben decides at that moment, that Chris is actually the most annoying human being on the planet.

“What were you saying about not being careless?”

Leslie groans, a sentiment he shares but can’t articulate, and gives him a small shove. “What the hell are we going to do?” she hisses, his own panic reflected tenfold in her eyes.

“I’ll just go out there. You can sneak out after he’s done.”

“He’ll see me.”

“What?”

“I could see your outline through the shower door.”

“You could—What? Leslie—“

She waves a frantic hand at him as Chris knocks again, but the concern over what she might have seen battling with their current position has basically rendered him useless. He’s not exactly known for his poise in high stress situations to begin with. She seems to realize his mind is paralyzed, though, and in her own moment of panic, reaches out and turns the water back on.

“Tell him to come in,” she whispers, gripping his arms and spinning him around so his back is to the shaded glass door.

“Leslie—“

“Just do it.”

He looks at her with disbelief, but there’s little choice but to listen to her. He calls to Chris, ignoring the fact that he can hear his heart beating, and before he can blink, Leslie tugs his now sopping towel away and tosses it in the corner of the shower. She steps toward him, pulling her arms between his chest and hers and tucking her head under his chin, and before he can question her, the bathroom door opens.

To say it’s the most awkward two minutes of his life would be an understatement. Chris is whistling—a habit or a bald attempt to cover up the sound of him peeing, Ben doesn’t know—and the whole time Leslie, still fully clothed, is pressed against his naked body in circumstances that can’t merit any recourse but feigned ignorance. In actuality, he’s too aware of her warm body pressed against his and her wet hair sticking to his skin and her shaky breath against his chest. And there’s no question they’re both well aware of his erection. In a night that couldn’t have gone less like he hoped, this is the cherry on top of the sundae.

Ben dips his head just a bit, his chin grazing the top of Leslie’s head. His hands itch to move, to wrap around her frame and hold her, but they’re both frozen, waiting for this latest torture to end. Finally, the toilet flushes, and Ben lets out the breath he’s been holding.

“Everything okay, Ben? You’ve been in there an awfully long time.”

Ben fights the urge to groan. He wishes the ground would open up and swallow him. Or Chris. Probably Chris. “Yeah,” he manages to choke out. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay. Goodnight, buddy.”

Ben doesn’t bother to return the sentiment. The door finally opens and shuts, and Leslie pulls back just enough to turn off the water, eyes averted in some lame attempt to provide him some privacy. Not that the past few minutes haven’t been entirely revealing. “Sorry,” she says shakily, bending down and groping for his now useless towel. She hands it to him and he halfheartedly wraps it around his waist. “I panicked.”

“Leslie…”

She looks up at him, finally, blue eyes large and dark, her hair plastered to her cheeks and neck, and Ben’s own apologies die on his lips. He steps closer to her, slowly lowering his forehead to hers, and she leans back against the wall. “We’re really bad at this, aren’t we?”

“Or really good,” she breathes. “Chris hasn’t caught on.”

Ben still isn’t so sure that Chris’ good faith in them isn’t blinding him to the obvious, but he doesn’t point this out. Leslie isn’t naïve. She’s as aware of the risks as he is. “We can’t do this here,” he says, bringing one hand to her cheek and brushing her hair away. Her own hands wander to his shoulders and then wend around his neck.

“No,” she agrees. It comes out soft and breathy, and Ben snakes one arm around her back and tugs her closer. “But you do…want to? Right?”

She sounds tentative, her lack of surety a reflection of his own, and he suddenly understands what she asked him earlier: that she was questioning his commitment more than her own.

He can’t understand how she could doubt for a second, though, that she’s all he wants.

The realization shakes off the last of his uncertainty, leaving only want and need and desire stretching endlessly before him. This is it. They’re going to try this, to take this risk together—no more questioning that they’re not both in this completely.

“Absolutely.”

Leslie smiles, a sunbeam breaking through the fogginess of this evening, and then shifts, pushing up on her tiptoes and kissing him. It’s dizzying, a kiss caught up in the joy of the moment as much as their desire, and Ben’s arm tightens around her, pulling her as close as he can.

“We can’t do this here,” she reminds him, contradicting the way she keeps pressing her lips to his, fingers wending through his hair. “I can’t take any more Chris interruptions. Especially not in the middle of sex.”

The inadvertent mental image this conjures is enough to take the edge off, though Leslie’s lips traveling across his jaw and then back to his mouth almost counterbalances it. He won’t even let himself think about her mention of them having sex; how casually it dropped from her lips; how inevitable she made it sound.

Fuck.

“Are you sure?” He leans down and kisses beneath her ear, and she whimpers, nails scratching at his neck. “I mean, how often can he really go to the bathroom?”

Leslie laughs, dipping her head and resting it against the space between his neck and shoulder. She lets out a shuddery breath, and Ben drops one hand to the small of her back, rubbing at the exposed skin where her sweatshirt has ridden up. Her flesh is covered in goose pimples, an unwelcome reminder that they’re both soaked and chilled.

“Come on,” he says, turning to kiss the side of her head and then stepping back. He opens the door and takes her hand, leading her out of the shower and then heading back to the closet to get some new towels. When he turns around, he finds Leslie stripped down to her underwear, clothes a sopping pile on the floor. Ben swallows, hard, and with effort, averts his eyes as he holds out the towel.

“Thanks.” She’s struggling not to laugh at him—he can hear it in her voice—and when he glances back at her, towel secure around her body, she’s grinning.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…” She shrugs, still smiling at him, and stoops to gather her clothes. “I saw you naked earlier, and now you’re trying to be modest. It’s cute.”

Ben runs a hand through his hair and reaches for his clothes, not eager to get back into Chris’ literal sweat suit. “Leslie,” he groans, more than a little frustrated by how inadvertently she’s driving him crazy. “If I get any more turned on tonight, I’m going to explode.”

Her eyes widen, lips twitching mischievously, and she takes a step toward him. “I guess I shouldn’t kiss you goodnight then.”

“Probably not,” he agrees, a reasonable thought that doesn’t coincide with anything he’s feeling. She moves closer, eyes dancing over his chest to his lips and then finally meeting his eyes, and she shrugs.

“I’ll see you in the morning then.”

He nods. “Bright and early.”

“Right.”

They continue to stare at one another, Leslie’s eyes playfully daring him, but it isn’t until she reaches for the doorknob that he gives in, catching her by the wrist and tugging her closer. She stumbles, her chest bumping his, and despite her low, soft tone, she can’t stop teasing him. “I thought this was a bad idea.”

“Probably is,” he murmurs, and before she can respond, he leans in and kisses her, long and deep, absorbing her sigh as she sways into him.

They part slowly, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as she bites her lower lip, staring up at him almost shyly. Reluctantly, they step away from each other, and Ben opens the door and peers out at the dimly lit hallway. With Chris nowhere in sight, they step out of the bathroom and creep back to the living room. Chris has left a bottle of ginseng and a glass of water on the table, and Ben feels an ambivalent mixture of guilt and annoyance.

“I should go,” Leslie whispers. She pushes up on her tiptoes and quickly kisses his cheek. “Sweet dreams.”

“See you in the morning.”

Leslie smiles, squeezing his hand and softly padding toward Chris’ guest bedroom. When she reaches the doorway, she turns. “By the way,” she says, somehow sounding both amused and exasperated, “Chris mentioned earlier that he needs a ride home tomorrow.”

“What?”

She shrugs, and he sinks onto the couch, running his hands through his hair and then looking back at her. “I know. But we’ve made it this far, right? What’s a few more hours?”

Torture, he thinks as she blows him a kiss. He watches her until she’s out of sight, trying and failing not to think of the night stretching out in front of him, long and lonely, or the tedious car ride with Chris or how long it will be before he and Leslie can finally be alone.

Irritated, Ben reaches out and smacks the bottle of ginseng, listening to the satisfying sound of it rolling across the floor. Then, sighing, he lies back on the couch, pillowing one arm beneath his neck.

The most important thing, he reasons, reconciling his annoyance with a sprig of hope, is that there will be another moment.

And Chris will be nowhere in sight.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And double thanks if you take a minute to comment!


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